Neal carey was eleven years old and broke. That wasn’t a big deal for most eleven-year-olds, but Neal was basically self-supporting, as his father had never put in an appearance and his mother had an expensive habit that more than ate up whatever money she brought home when she was capable of leaving the apartment. So when Neal snuck into Meg’s one slow summer afternoon, he was looking for a contribution. He was a skinny, dirty kid like a lot of others on the West Side. There was nothing unusual about Neal and he liked it that way. The ability to blend into a crowd is an important trait for a pickpocket.

There was nothing unusual about Meg’s, either. It was just another bar that served beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin and tonic to the remnants of the neighborhood’s Irish population. McKeegan, the bartender, felt he’d landed in a pretty soft bog when he’d married Meg.

“There is nothing more fortuitous than wedding an Irish broad with her own bar,” he was telling Graham that afternoon. “She’ll keep you in food, whiskey, and you know what, and all you have to do is stand behind the bar and make conversation with other drunks, no offense to yourself, you’ll be understanding.”

Graham also felt lucky. He had an afternoon to kill, he was making a living, and he was parked on a bar stool in front of a cold glass of beer. A child of Delancey Street knew things didn’t get much better.

Young Neal slid up and crouched under the bar next to Graham, listening to the sounds of the baseball game with which the man seemed involved. He waited until he heard the crack of a bat and the cheer of the crowd. Experience had taught him that men sitting in saloons lean forward when home runs are hit. Sure enough, this sucker did, and Neal placed his index and forefingers in a gentle pinch on the now-exposed top of the man’s wallet. When the man sat back again, the wallet popped into the kid’s hand as if it was saying, “Take me home.” Neal, who didn’t have a set at home, nevertheless thought that television was a wonderful thing.